Regret
by roominthecastle
Summary: Shaw pays an unexpected visit to the library.


**disclaimer:** not mine.

* * *

He sits at his desk and soon feels eyes on him. He turns his upper body. His chair creaks. He glances toward the doorway and sees her standing there. "Hello, Ms. Shaw," he greets her simply with a shadow of a smile.

It is an unexpected visit but not altogether unwelcome.

She is leaning against the frame, arms crossed, silent, fixing him with a strange, firm gaze - one that gets vaguely unnerving as the seconds tick by. "Is anything the matter?" he asks, eyebrows drawn into a concerned frown.

"No," she replies, her tone flat, then she tilts her head to further scrutinize the object of her latest turmoil.

Something obviously is the matter but he is not about to accuse her of lying - especially when John isn't around. So he just keeps holding her gaze, raking his brain for something casual to say.

Casual and safe.

"Bear isn't here," he tells her. She pushes herself away from the frame and reaches for something he can't yet see. "Mr. Reese took him to the park," he adds, feeling slightly nervous.

"I know," she says and now he sees what she's brought with her.

A quite innocent looking chair. In her hands, however, nothing is ever innocent.

She drags the chair along the floor as she keeps moving towards him, creating an excruciatingly irritating noise that seems to echo forever in his head.

She stops at his desk. "May I?" she asks.

He stares up at her, his confusion mounting. Still, it's no reason to be rude. "Please," he says, gesturing to the old library chair she's pulled over.

She sits, inhales deeply, and glances around in his kingdom made of paper and machines and question marks.

He watches her with gentle and wary curiosity.

She soon locks eyes with him again.

"Would you like some tea?" he inquires.

Her jaw clenches. Again with the tea.

He doesn't know what else to do. He can't even seem to remember if there's any tea left. He has no idea what to make of this odd situation.

She looks tired and irritated.

Increasingly irritated.

As if he insulted her with the offer.

"I'm not thirsty," she says, almost snapping at him. Then, "But thank you."

He nods, unsure.

She looks at his hands. They are resting on the keyboard. "What are you working on?"

"I um…" he trails off, glances at one of the monitors, then back at her. "Just some odds and ends."

She nods at his evasiveness with a forced, icy little smile.

Concerned, he narrows his eyes at her. "Are you okay?"

The forced smile stays in place. "Why wouldn't I be," she asks, "Harold?"

He isn't as scared as he should be.

"Well, for starters, you got shot and you still haven't seen a proper doctor," he replies and his gaze flickers to her shoulder. "Although I'm relieved to see that duct tape is no longer your primary wound care product."

"I can take care of myself."

He raises his gaze to her. "I know you can. I just—"

She cuts him off. "You just what? Care about me? Wanna protect me? You?" Her tone is wry and biting and upset. She is angry now and all that surfacing emotion - like a death ray - appears to be focused solely on him.

Caring is confusing. Anger is straightforward. And she wants to infect him with it. She wants to rile him up, mar him, crack him open, pull him apart and make all those insufferable secrets spill out.

But he doesn't take offense. His face remains still. "Yes."

His brashly quiet, even tone only seems to aggravate her further. She leans closer, grabbing the edge of his desk so tight, her knuckles turn white. "Stop." _Stop helping. Stop caring. Stop making me care._

"Ms. S—"

The chair screeches loudly when she suddenly gets to her feet. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out the cell phone he gave her, and

BANG!

She slams it on his desk.

He seems strangely, maddeningly immune to her temper. "What are you doing?"

Her ear piece lands next to the phone. "I want you out of my head," she says in a low voice.

He stands, so she no longer towers above him. She, in turn, doesn't back out of his personal space.

"Is this about Genrika?" he asks. His voice is calm but his heart is racing.

She glares at him. Is he pushing her buttons now? "Gen," she corrects him _again _through clenched teeth_,_ "and no."

"If I upset you—"

"Take off your glasses."

Her request throws him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Take them off."

He briefly wonders if she intends to hit him, but obeys anyway. He removes his spectacles and puts them next to her phone and ear piece. Their surroundings blur but she remains more or less in focus.

And she doesn't hit him. She just looks at him, taking in everything - his eyes, blue like Cole's and his tie, red like Cole's blood on the dirty floor. He died protecting her.

She slowly leans in, daring her new wannabe protector to be the first to back away.

He doesn't move.

"You know what happened to the last guy who was in my head?" He slowly nods. He knows. He remembers every number, every person, they failed to save. "He wanted to be my hero, too."

"I am not Mr. Cole," he says.

"No. You are not," she agrees. "But I'm still me."

As they study each other, the angry tension fades away into something else. His pupils are dilated - at least he can't hide that. Neither can she.

"Haven't you regretted saving me yet?" she asks.

A pained expression flickers across his features. "On the contrary, Ms. Shaw."

Their hands brush against each other. The unexpected contact makes her flinch but she doesn't pull away. Her hand drifts closer to his again and, like a cautious experiment, she runs her fingertips lightly over his knuckles. He picks up her ear piece. He gently lifts her hand, places the small device in her palm, then closes her fingers around it.

"I would very much regret losing you."


End file.
